


Dean, I Think I'm Dying

by allthebeautifulthings9828



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fallen Castiel, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Ending, Human Castiel, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sick Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthebeautifulthings9828/pseuds/allthebeautifulthings9828
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newly human, Castiel wakes up with his first bout of nasty flu. Dean is still getting used to the idea of them being together, but now he's not sure what to do with his need to take care of this person he loves. And if one more person cracks jokes about him going soft, he thinks he might start shooting. Finally, he gives in to his desire to make Castiel feel better, and, with a few words of acceptance from a pharmacist, he embarks on one of the stranger sensations of commitment. Germs gross him the hell out, yet he still wants that former angel for his own. Christ, is Dean growing as a man against his will?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean, I Think I'm Dying

A miserable, drawn out groan emanated from the lump in the middle of the bed. The lump hogged all the blankets and it didn't seem clear which end was the head and which end was feet. From the bedroom doorway, Dean heard a wet sneeze, followed by another miserable groan.

"What's with you?" he asked. "Sammy's got coffee and bran muffins or some healthy shit like that. C'mon."

"Dean, don't talk about food," the ball of blankets mumbled.

Something rough and blocked made the former angel's voice broken and whiny. Dean climbed on the bed and tugged on the blankets, but they tugged back even harder. So he jerked the blankets. They jerked back. Ridiculous tug-of-war ensued until Dean uncovered Castiel's head and shoulders. Pale, feverish, and glassy eyed, the new human coughed, spraying germs into the air like a geyser.

"Woah, Cas! C'mon! Cover your mouth!" Dean flung backwards on his haunches, an arm tossed over his face.

"Dean, I think I'm dying," said Castiel through a solid wall of congestion.

Dying, no, he didn't think so, but Dean leaned over and pressed his palm to Castiel's forehead. A lifetime of spoon feeding Sam cough syrup and children's Tylenol in place of an actual parent gave him too much experience with gross, snotty sort of illnesses.

"You're burning up," he said. "Puking or shitting?"

"What?"

"You heard me. You puking or shitting?"

It seemed Castiel understood the embarrassment of discussing human bodily functions. He turned away and rubbed his eyes. "Both."

"For how long?"

"Three a.m."

"Uh-huh." Dean felt his forehead again and slid his hand to his chest. It felt like a pretty high fever. "You coughing up clear stuff? Green stuff? From your lungs?"

"Yes."

"Okay. It's probably just the flu. Happens to everyone. Stay in bed. Fluids. The usual song and dance."

The six foot germ sat up in bed. "I've never been ill, Dean." Suddenly changing his position brought on a violent coughing fit but at least he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth that time. "Influenza is serious. It killed millions every year. The Spanish influenza epidemic of 1917 and 1918--"

"--Get out the way back machine, Cas. It's 2013. You're gonna be fine in a few days."

Dramatically, Castiel flung back on the bed and groaned. "Let me die."

"Jesus, you sound like Sammy. I'll be back later. Sleep it off, angel face."

"I hate that nickname, Dean."

"You love it!" he shouted back down the hall as he left.

Downstairs, Dean sat in the library pouring over files about attempts to cure demons that failed and one that succeeded. He took excessive notes, trying to understand what changed - what was the variable that made it work. If he had allowed Sam to go through with curing Crowley, it would have killed him in the meantime, so they never got to see if the process had any affect. There had to be a way to cure demons without human deaths.

Loud coughing upstairs broke the wall around Dean's concentration. His eyes turned toward the stairwell, elbows planted on the table, hands balled in front of his mouth. He usually left Sam to his illnesses for the most part. Men never needed someone to take care of them that much, or at least the Winchesters didn't, but listening to Castiel suffer alone in their bedroom tugged mercilessly at his heart.

"Shit."

Dean dropped his pen and slammed his notebook shut. He grabbed his jacket on the way outside to his baby.

The nearest pharmacy in Lebanon wasn't even a chain. Nothing was in that town. The few businesses still operating there were all mom and pop places, which meant the pharmacist wanted to help him. What ever happened to impersonal service? Dean eyed the boxes of TheraFlu, Alka-Selzer Cold and Flu, and every other drug like it, wondering why there couldn't be something called Former Angel Flu. He knew a lot about children's cough syrup and children's Tylenol after taking care of Sam when they were kids, but Castiel certainly wasn't a child. He was a fully grown man puking and snotting his guts out at home, and damn it, Dean _felt_ enough to want to take care of him.

"Hi there. Can I help you?" A middle-aged woman with a graying ponytail, narrow glasses, and a white lab coat smiled congenially.

"No, uh, I think I got it," said Dean through a quick forced smile.

The pharmacist glanced at the shelf. "You've got the flu?"

Dean shook his head. "Not me."

"Oh," she replied, "you're taking care of a loved one?"

The choice of words pricked the back of Dean's neck. "You could say that, sure."

"What are his symptoms?"

"What?" Dean croaked.

Her smile shifted to one side of her mouth. "Forgive me, but men don't usually behave so nervously if they're just buying medication for their wives." She plucked a box of TheraFlu off the shelf. "This works rather well. Don't worry. We're not all homophobes in these small towns."

For once, Dean didn't know what to say. He never thought he made such obvious appearances, but hearing a few simple words of acceptance from a stranger made it seem somehow ... okay. Normal. Not such a big deal. His thumb dug into the T on the TheraFlu label, feeling tension bleed away from his shoulders. Finally, he dropped the box in his basket and looked at the pharmacist again.

"He's, uh, he's puking and says he's got diarrhea too. Snotty nose, coughing, all of it," Dean explained.

She gave an understanding nod. "Okay. Come with me."

The middle-aged pharmacist led Dean around the modest store explaining different medications and the importance of hydration to replace lost electrolytes. He followed and listened obediently, only because she didn't make a big deal about it at all. It was an everyday customer to her. The hunter never really had that before, especially when it came to wrestling with the shift in his relationship with the former angel. Sammy used it for an endless string of teasing, which was technically his right as the little brother, but Dean wasn't comfortable with himself in a committed relationship let alone showing it off in daylight.

That pharmacist just let it exist. She really didn't care either way, except making sure Dean had the right supplies to get Castiel through his first bout with the flu. The woman had no idea how normalcy coated him like a thick, healing salve.

By the time Dean got back to the bunker, he had a plan and that gave him some measure of control. He stopped in the kitchen first, unloaded his two shopping bags, and put a pot on the stove. Sure, he could have warmed up a can of soup in the microwave but he had better skills than that. Soup heated on the stove tasted better, and he put a little garlic in it to boost Castiel's immune system. He watered down the broth a little bit to cut the intense taste, which would inevitably make him feel barfy all over again.

"Hey," Sam said as he crossed the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. "You know Cas doesn't sound good up there."

"I know," replied Dean, stirring the pot on the stove. "I got it."

"You're cooking? Awww."

"Yeah, whatever. I'll have Cas projectile vomit on you like The Exorcist." He pushed past Sam and grabbed a tray from the top of the fridge, then washed it off in the sink.

Chuckling, Sam strolled out of the kitchen, saying, "Go take care of your honey boo-boo."

"Fuck off," Dean muttered.

He loaded the tray with a bowl of chicken noodle soup - a bit of garlic added - and a bottle of Gatorade along with a full water bottle, a box of Kleenex, and a cup of steaming TheraFlu. Upstairs, he followed the sound of Castiel blowing his nose and coughing up something he didn't want to think about. Still, he needed to be of use, to take care of him. That was what life was about with another person, right? Besides, Sam anyway.

"Hey, Cas," he said as he put the tray on the nearby dresser. "How's the snot factory treating you?"

"I'm o--" Abruptly, the former angel hung over the side of the bed and vomited on the floor. He'd already thrown up so much that his stomach had nothing left to give. Groaning, he leaned back on the bed and draped an arm over his eyes.

Dean disappeared to the bathroom and grabbed a towel and the garbage can. It should have sent him running from the room, but the desire to make Castiel feel better outweighed precisely how nasty it was to watch another person spread germs all over a room. Truth was, he thought as he brought the towel and garbage can to his room, he figured he was a bit of a germaphobe.

"Here. Aim for the can next time." Without comment, he wiped up the mess with the bath towel.

Castiel sounded weak and exhausted. "Thank you, Dean."

He decided to give Castiel's stomach a few minutes to settle before trying to subject him to food. Deliberate and slow, Dean slid onto the bed among the tangled blankets and the shirtless sick man to feel his fever. It hadn't changed since that morning. Yet as he dove into caretaker mode, he still couldn't disengage his emotions from watching Castiel suffer. The whole thing read to him as a three ring circus of chick flick deathbed scene bullshit. It was just the flu, for hell's sake.

"You're gonna be okay, babe," he heard himself quietly say.

"You told me being human wasn't bad." Teeth chattering, Castiel grabbed fistfuls of blanket and burritoed himself to the throat. "I don't like this, Dean."

"I know," he said, "but it'll pass in a few days. You'll be fine. You just caught some bug somewhere." Dean bent and pressed his lips to Castiel's feverish temple, only absently aware of probably ensuring his own bout with the flu later. "Not all of humanity is bad like this. You know, that perfect Zeppelin song coming on the radio, a great steak dinner, fishing in the middle of nowhere... See? Not all bad. Just bad days."

"Flannel shirts," Castiel added. "I like flannel shirts."

"A zillion kinds of pie..."

"The Discovery Channel..."

Dean smirked but it only masked his relief in feeling Castiel relax beside him. "A hot shower after being on the road all day..."

"Hot coffee," countered Castiel.

"Hot sex..."

"You..."  Glassy blue eyes rose to meet his, weary and red-rimmed, framed by the pale skin of flu. Still, he retained his appeal.

"You..." Dean echoed in a softer tone.

Drowsily, as if he surrendered, Castiel's eyes closed and he leaned against Dean's arm. "I'm exhausted."

"I want you to eat and drink a little bit first." His hand passed through Castiel's damp hair and he rolled off the bed. He brought the tray to the bed, sitting cross-legged. "Soup's probably cold. Just get something in your body. You gotta take this whole thing though." He handed over the TheraFlu, which met with a skeptical pair of blue eyes. "It's gross but it'll make you feel better. Down the thing like a shot."

"Dean, where did you get all this?"

He shrugged, self-conscious, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I, uh, I went shopping."

Castiel smirked. That new human habit unnerved Dean even then.

"Don't look at me like that. Eat."

"You were worried about me," Castiel said, mimicking the teasing tone he'd learned from years of Winchester jokes. "Dean Winchester, you really do love me, don't you? I see it."

Rolling his eyes, Dean slung himself off the bed and kept himself busy with cleaning up the room. "Yeah, the pharmacist saw it too. I guess I'm just an open damn book these days, huh?" He dumped barfy towels into the laundry basket and then sprayed air freshener all over the pile. "What I wanna know is when are you people gonna leave me alone about it? Is it really that weird? I lived with Lisa and raised Ben for a year. I'm not the eternal bachelor you people think I am. Everybody's using it against me."

Castiel's face contorted in disgust as he swallowed the TheraFlu, but he listened intently to Dean nonetheless. "I don't use it against you." Coughing spasmed his chest again. He tried to continue through it, saying, "But sometimes I can't get through to you, Dean. Only sarcasm and rude comments get any feeling out of you. I'm just learning to speak Winchester."

"I don't want you to speak Winchester, okay? I want you to speak Cas."

The angel folded his legs and cloaked the blanket around his shoulders, over his head. He looked like a one-man tent, his face poking out so he could spoon occasional bites of soup into his mouth. He watched Dean in silence as Dean gathered up dirty laundry and wads of used Kleenex. Occasionally, he sprayed more air freshener as if it actually fought germs too.  


"Speaking Cas, as you put it, means saying I love you and hearing it reciprocated. You can't seem to do that, Dean, and I accept that about you. But you can't have it both ways," he said, voice hoarse with the strain of his illness.

"Oh, can't I?" He laughed, a bitter sound, stifling too much.

"No, you can't. I understand your ... reservations ... about me but--"

"--Hey." Dean stopped him, dropping the laundry basket on the floor, and sat on the bed. "I don't have reservations about  _you_. We've been through miles of bullshit together and by some stroke of luck or magic or whatever, we're still here. There's no one, besides Sammy, that I need more, okay? I need you, Cas."

Castiel smiled weakly. He swallowed a mouthful of Gatorade, still smiling a bit around the bottle rim.

"What?"

"I need you is Dean language for I love you," he said, his voice edging on humor.

Sighing, Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and nodded, admitting the allegation. He knew fluffy words never came easy for him no matter how much he felt the emotion behind them. And that was really what everybody found so funny. They all knew he'd fallen for Castiel years ago, so much so that Dean wondered if he was the last to know. He tried though. He tried to stay committed, to be comfortable with feeling affection and desire for a man.

But as Castiel peered at him through feverish, glassy eyes, and red, irritated skin around his nose, Dean still felt it. No, it wasn't a lust thing. No one in their right mind lusted after anyone rattling from the chest and snotting from the nose. It had to be--

"Okay, Cas," he said, working up his nerve. He shifted on the edge of the mattress and grabbed Castiel's shoulder, though he couldn't quite make eye contact. "I, you know... I love you."

Awful, wicked silence filled the gap between them. Castiel slurped a noddle off his spoon. Hesitantly, Dean's eyes flashed on the new human's germy face. They stared at each other for more than a minute as if Castiel wanted Dean to marinate in the words for as long as possible, so he understood they were meaningful and harmless all at the same time.

"I know, Dean. I love you too." Castiel formed a faint smile. Just a glimpse though. "Now move. I have to vomit again."

Dean sprang off the bed just as Castiel lunged for the garbage can. "Great. Just the reaction I hoped for."

The poor former angel tossed up everything he'd just eaten. For the rest of his life, Dean had the beautiful memory of truly saying 'I love you' and meaning it for the first time, immediately followed by the object of his love barfing into a plastic white garbage can.


End file.
